Between Brothers
by Trinity Archangel
Summary: Pre DMC.A suicidal Dante can't seem to shake his brother or his past.But are his consequences from Virgil retribution for his past actions?Join the near death devil in recollection.
1. Default Chapter

Zwischen Teufeln/Entre Les Frères

June 18th. Dante stumbled around the corner, gripping his side like a tourniquet, as if his vise-like grasp could cease the blood that spurted from his open wound. He stopped momentarily to take a few staggering breaths of air, mildly paralyzed by pain, but fear that he would never again be able to move compelled him from his dark corner. He refused to die in the streets, among the homeless and the directionless, the weary and the poor. He was startled by a rattling in the alley behind him, and he took off, half-running half walking on toward his flat across the street. There was a trail of blood moistening the pavement below his feet, the pale moon illuminating the dark pools of his vitality. A lesser man would have succumbed to death by now. And a lesser man would not have been in this predicament that he found himself in. It was his stubbornness that bled him this way.

He stumbled pass a few pedestrians on the street, too drunk at this witching hour to care, and threw his body against the rickety double doors of his complex. Luckily, the automatic lock had failed again and he fell into the dim entranceway, half conscious. His impact had made a less subtle noise that he imagined, and a downstairs tenant peeped through the crack of his door to see the struggling devil face planted on the floor. He dashed out immediately and gripped his arm, assisting him to his feet. 

"Are you-" he paused moment when he realized the pool of blood that had accumulated on the floor where Dante had for just a moment lay. Dante barely responded with a stiff nod and threw himself up the stairs, slipping on his own spillage. Once at the top of the stairs he managed to find his second story dwelling through hazy vision and thanked God that he did not live up another flight. His body wouldn't have made it. He burst through the door and slammed it shut, tearing off his shirt before he fell upon his unkempt bed in a feverish plummet. His hips were burdened with the pressure of Ebony and Ivory under his weight but he could not move. His arm slid off the bed and dangled, knuckles scraping the floorboards, frosty hair abroad, vacant green eyes focused on a split in the wood that led to the far wall in his studio apartment. He did not remember closing his eyes, but it was dark.

June 12th. At ten fifty- seven am, he sat slumped over his knees bare chest, loading his breakfast into the chamber and spinning the barrel. He clicked it shut randomly and casually put the nozzle above his ear. Pulled the trigger. The hammer had fallen on an empty chamber. Again. He did not fight with fate, rather, with a grumble he started to the bathroom with a dirty towel slung over his shoulder. The heat in his second floor studio had stuck his white jersey to his skin, his white hair to his forehead, his boxers to his groin. He had sweat to much he smelled like Sodium, the blood under his fingernails caked and clotted from the previous night's rendezvous. Everyday, the vicious cycle of his life continued, with the only promise of probability the bullet in his Ruger contained. Maybe one day he'd load in two and stop procrastinating.

But it was Saturday so he got up, bathed his skin, and neglected to lace his boots, comb his shaggy hair or dry off. He stuck an Einstein bagel between his teeth and grabbed a beer from the mini fridge he had next to his bed. It also served as a nightstand in his small flat. He pressed the play button on his answering machine and stood warily next to it listening, dropping crumbs on his white wife beater. Static. Static. A job he'd already done. A woman he'd already done. He tossed the remainder of the bagel into an overflowing ant haven trashcan, tucked his wallet into his back pocket and started out to the world. With a mastered façade of contentment, he skipped down the stairs two at a time into the equally as hot entranceway. His flat was right on the corner of a hill in San Francisco, so the left side of the building sloped, mirroring the neighboring complex across the street. The moment he stepped out into the heat, a Trolley conveniently rolled by on silver tracks and he hopped onto the back of it, riding against the wind on the snaking path down the hill into the heart of the city. He hopped off in front of a Smith and Wesson gun shop, popular with the youth outside littering the glass, prohibited from going in. The chime above the door signaled his arrival. His wayward appearance caught the attention of a few off duty police officers fogging up the establishment, but the shop manager behind the desk waved to him.  
  
"Hi, Mr. Dante. Good to see you out and about." Dante gave him a fickle half smile and went about his business. Every Wednesday a new supply would come in and he'd stock up, examining clips and bullets, guns he could modify in his own devilish way to suit his fancy. It seemed like every other night some minion would swallow up his offense, or he'd loose it defying gravity in some way. He went up and down the aisles, conscious to the gentleman who kept staring at him from the other end of the aisle, not trying to be conspicuous. He heard the manager assure him that "he comes in here all the time." He could also hear the shop manager's daughter, who Dante had to admit, was a gun expert, asking customers for help. Seemed like she was getting declined a lot because he kept hearing her very feminine voice asking everyone. He disappeared into a back room, swollen with heat and darted his eyes to and fro at the miscellaneous weaponry in the back. WWI replicas, medieval weaponry, swords. He wondered how much Alastor was worth. When he exited, he came toe to toe with the manager's daughter who caught her breath and slapped a petite hand over her heart. Dante didn't budge. 

"Didn't I _just _see you in the other aisle? How did you get here so quickly?"

Dante made an incredulous face but she darted by him and entered the room. The heat was driving people to madness. He grabbed a few shotgun shells and started for the desk, peeping down every aisle for a familiar face to no avail.

"How're ya?" The manager asked, moping his damp forehead with a handkerchief. Dante nodded.

"How'd you like the Ruger? 19th century, you know? Get the job done?"

Dante smiled at the irony. "Not really."

The manager nodded. "I can't imagine what the hell you do with all this stuff. You a cop or something?" He paused to mop his forehead again. He had a tendency to run his mouth and Dante had hoped that seeing him with his wallet resting on the counter would hurry him along. But it didn't. Dante shrugged. "Something like that."

He watched him run the laser across the barcode a few time until he gave up to punch in the numbers by hand. "Damn thing. Say, you got a twin brother or something you came in here with? I mean I never seen him before but I figured I'd ask." Dante responded with a flat "No."

"Really?" Came the skeptical voice. "Looked just like you. White hair and all, I mean that's kinda rare dontcha think? I seen bleach blondes but his hair is- whoo." he whistled, gestured to Dante's own wild hair. "Bit more tamed, no offense."

"None taken," Dante responded, annoyed. He finally rang everything up and gave Dante his receipt.

"Before you go, I just got a Deagle in yesterday. Heavy, seemed like something you'd like, since the Ruger didn't work out to well. Pity."

Dante could see his eyes glowing with hopes of a possible sale. Yes, pity. He found himself nodding. In an instant, the burly manager was gone and back with the unloaded Deagle, pure black.

"I got a silencer for it too, scope and all. I mean, the thing makes this cannon noise when you pull the trigger. You think my ears would be immune to this music by now but this buddy packs a whop." He passed the gun to Dante, then taking notice that he was wearing gloves. He whistled again.

"It's gotta be 96 degrees out there. How can you wear gloves?"

Dante examined the Deagle for a while, faking interest, set it down on the desk, took the glove off with his teeth. He held up four and a half fingers for him to see.

"I'm sorry, I didn't-"

"All I need is the trigger finger." He nodded at him and left the store with a smug smile on his face.  
  
A brother. Imagine that. A twin. A replica, a spitting imagine of himself. Clone? He started up the steep sidewalk toward his flat, regretting not having ridden his Red Rocket. Looked across the street at his reflection. His reflection stared back. Blinked. Wait, he didn't blink. The wicked curse of the wretched heat began to affect him. He'd already begun to sweat profusely. He took a step into the street but a trolley whizzed past him the moment he did so, gentle bells tinkling a warning. He stepped back onto the sidewalk, looked again for the reflection, mirage, whatever. He was disappointed.


	2. Replica

Replica

The phone rang. Dante picked it up on the third ring, not taking his attention away from the sword in his lap. He was busy trying to scrape off pieces of dried blood with his fingernails. When darkness falls, the heat lessens considerably, and his phone starts to ring.

"Devil May Cry." Silence. "I am not an exterminator. Call pest control." He didn't bother to argue with the refuting voice on the other end, so he hung up politely. Silence accompanied him momentarily, the music the couple upstairs was making joined him for a few minutes, the whistling of a kettle next door. He set down Alastor gingerly when the phone rang yet again. Something in the ringing screamed promise.

> "Devil May Cry."
> 
> "Hello?-Mr. Dante there?" The voice was more annoyed than frantic. A man.
> 
> "You're speaking to him."
> 
> "I don't know how much I believe in the supernatural..."

Dante was about to hang up when the voice continued, "- but this guy is obviously looking for trouble. I know I shoulda called the cops or something, but you know-I'm kind of a smart- ass and I might have insulted him about his white hair." 

White hair? "Get on with it," Dante urged.

"Yeah, so I go inside my house and shut the door, but I hear him outside trying my knob. I warned him a few times to back off, but he didn't, so when I got my .38 caliber shot him-don't ask me where, maybe I missed, but I thought I'd hit him 'cause I saw some specks splatter, he came back at me like the devil reincarnate. Now he's outside poking around and shit...Frankly I'm afraid he's gonna kick my ass. And I don't want to call the cops because-"

> Dante cut him off. "Did he say anything?"
> 
> "No."
> 
> "What's he look like?"

"He's pretty lean, I guess. White hair, green eyes, six -one, I guess. Fuck, could you hurry up? It's like he just disappears." Now the voice was frantic. "I live in the Tenderloin District, if you take the 80-"

Red Rocket sliced through the sinister city without so much as painting a shadow on the ground. It moved fluidly without hesitation, zipped silently north on the 80, exited into the Tenderloin District. Alastor sent an electrical massage up Dante's spine. He rode a few blocks south of the exit, entered a neighborhood with shoes flung over telephone wires, sparse street lamps, grass exchanged for sand, and dilapidated fences separating neighbors. He parked across the street behind a run down, powder blue 1988 Buick Lesabre. A few dogs were barking conversation to one another, but the house in question was at a dead end, the side facing the rest of the neighborhood was hidden behind a high wooden fence, some areas down, others exposing the neighboring yard. Nothing stirred. Not a porch light on, not a house light, no TV glare.  
He started toward the dark side of the house, ignoring the spine tingle of Alastor's frantic warning. He didn't know why, but he was more curious than frightened, more anticipated than excited, more wary than calm. He stuck the motorcycle keys into his pocket and stopped in front of a large sliding glass with two white sheets instead of curtains flung over it to shield the inside of the house. Some tin trashcans were nestled up against the house, another heaping bag of trash tied next to it. He looked up and then tried to peer through the thin sheets. He heard a door slam inside the house. Again, nothing stirred. "I don't know why I hope it's you," he mumbled. At the same time he hoped it wasn't. He side stepped into the half sand, half grass backyard and took in an eyeful at nothing but rusty car parts and window shutters. When he turned around again a gun was in his face. He gripped the wrist of the offender and shoved the nozzle away. The gun cracked and sent an explosion out into the night air. 

Dante didn't loose his cool disposition.The man glared at him for a tense minute then exhaled with relief, apologizing between breaths. "Holy crap. I thought you were him." The man, a dark haired, olive skinned Italian, bore striking resemblance to a Mario Brother. He stepped back to take in an eye full of Dante, fixing his eyes on Alastor's handle jutting out just over his shoulder.

> "As a matter of fact, I'm not sure you aren't him..."
> 
> "Get back in the house," Dante directed flatly. The man did not move off right away.
> 
> "Didja get him?"
> 
> "I didn't see him."

The man tucked his gun back underneath his protruding belly. "Musta scared him off. Silver-haired bastard. No offense to you."

> "You can pay me now."
> 
> "What?"
> 
> "Just give me gas money."
> 
> The man's face changed. "You didn't do anything!"
> 
> "I drove all the way up here for you to put a gun to my head and insult me."
> 
> "I didn't insult you, directly."
> 
> "What made you think I wasn't going to take offense to any of that?"

The man resisted momentarily, but gave up and reached into a tattered black wallet and fingered out a few bills. "What if he comes back?" Dante took the money from his hands and started into the street. "Shoot him again. And watch your mouth, fat ass." 

Back on Red Rocket heading North toward the 80. Leaving Tenderloin was like pulling teeth, arguably the worst District in California, a haze of unpleasantry hung over the area. At every street light a hooker or prostitute sauntered up to him to try and charm him with vernal disease, but upon seeing Alastor, they backed away into the shadows, seeking another moment of opportunity. The homeless weren't as jarred, stumbling over to him and begging for money, smelling like alcohol and cheap cigarettes. Cars were parallel parked on every corner on both sides of the street, and dim lights from bars and pubs tempted him, wooing his threshold of control to give a little. He stamped at a stray dog sniffing around his bike and lit up a cigarette, reneging his vow to stop. On nights like this when traffic was slow because alcohol impaired the drivers, and a full moon compelled lovers to quarrel, he felt it best to disassociate himself from the bewitching affect night had to offer. A car accidentally rolled into the back of his cycle and he jerked forward, cigarette fumbling from his lips. The offender offered him a wave of apology and yawned carelessly.  
The light turned green and he shot out like lightning, a red blur streaking through the city at break-neck speed. He dodged traffic effortlessly, his wild white hair flagging back against the wind and zoomed down another street with less traffic running parallel to where he'd come. It was clear here. He revved the engine and tunneled through the street, kicking up litter and lifting newspapers as he went.  
  
Then a figure appeared in the center of the street. A man, standing idly. If he swerved him he'd side swipe the parallel cars and crash terribly. If he hauled breaks, he might live but the man might not. Maybe he could wheelie on past him. All of this in 2.5 seconds-- he decided to stop. The sound of rubber crying out a desperate plea to stop filled the air, a long and agonizing screech, and suddenly Dante was upon the man who vanished the moment he got up to him. "Shit," he groaned, feeling the bike teeter. The front wheel lifted dramatically like a rearing horse, and he released the handle bars, slid with grace to where the passenger seat would be, had he a passenger, down onto his feet where he pressed his palms into the back of the bike to steady it and ran-walked it a few feet before it dropped back onto the pavement like a basketball. Damn rear wheel brake. The pungent odor of charred rubbed nearly choked him. He stood still in a cloud of burned rubber and exhaust searching the street for the culprit. When the dust cleared an older, brown skinned man in a derby was standing just between the door to a pub and the sidewalk, eyes wide like saucers.

"You alright, son?" He asked. A few other interested heads popped up behind his, all graying and eyes wide. He lifted a hand to signal that he was okay. He checked over the bike under their afar supervision and got back on after a few minutes, a bit disturbed though it did not show. He wanted to ask them if they'd seen the man, but he didn't. 

"Stop driving so fast," the man warned, clambering back inside. He did heed the warning, not because he feared another close call, but because it was easier to scan the darkness at a slower speed.

When he parked outside of his flat in a parallel spot not on the incline, he ripped off his dented REDRCKT license plate and started up the stairs to the double doors with it under arm. Another uninvolved night, hours wasted. At least he could look forward to breakfast the next morning. He was standing before his studio door fumbling for his key when a shadowy figure with his back pressed up against the stairwell at the base of the second set of steps stole his attention. The light fell short on the lower half of his body, on two decent sized boots, the silver straps around the ankle criss-crossed and got lost under navy pant legs. Dante trailed his eyes up to the hip, where, at his left side was a sleeved katanta jutting down elegantly behind his legs.  
Dante found himself walking toward the man although Alastor was begging him to stop. Before he got within six yards, the man stepped forward slightly so that Dante could see his own pale green eyes staring back at him. Strands of white hair made an appearance over his eyes, and a set frown was fixed on lips. The collar to his black under shirt was turned up, Vlad Tepes style, trying to conceal a still very noticeable scar stretching from ear to ear. Dante's throat tightened up. He was more or less staring at himself. He felt his hands tighten around Ebony and Ivory, he didn't even remember bringing them there. A loud set of footsteps came form upstairs. He looked up for just a moment and his other half disappeared when two oblivious young men shot down the rickety steps. They gave Dante nervous looks. 

"I-I'm a cop..." he stammered. They seemed to buy it and hurried on down to the first floor. Where he looked again, there was no one there.


	3. One

One

June 13th. 12:19 am. Uneasiness crept over Dante so much that he could barely stand. His heart was fighting out of his chest; his eyes were swimming around in his head. He took to checking every dark corner of his room, thrusting Alastor under his bed only to irritate the blank shells and dud bullets that nestled under it. They scattered and rolled to the left side of the room, forming a line up against the far wall. His hands couldn't stop shaking; his sweat stuck his leather gloves to his palms as though it'd been painted on. He peeled them off to reveal scars of his own he'd hidden; bites, punctures, a half a finger and some askew, calloused palms and blisters. A work of art, but nowhere as menacing as the scar the man had under his neck, carved with a surgical edge and a precise hand. And none held any memory as did it. Satisfied that he was alone, he took to steadying his rapid breathing. No. This could not be.  
  
He got up onto his feet and pulled Alastor from his back, dashing to the only window he had on the right wall. It was just big enough for him to leap out of-and he did so like a bird taking off, landing with just as much grace two stories below. He stepped over an over turned trashcan, shins caressed by a few fleeing cats and called with a voice so quivering he surprised himself. 

"Virgil!" He had a more personal air to his voice. He'd called to enemies before, but never with such a conviction in his chest. He was frightened and yet eager, he felt as if he were at the feet of God, awaiting judgment. He called again, stepping out from the alley boldly without a care to who might see him dragging Alastor along. Alastor. It surged again and there, just across the street was Virgil, standing like a listless spirit condemned to sweeping the Earth until his soul was prayed free from purgatory. He glared at him with cold eyes the color of clouds; his brows sloped menacingly, as if warning Dante to stay away. Dante wondered if he could sense his inferno. After an edgy moment of staring, where neither of them made any advancement, Virgil turned his back to him and slipped into shadows, the navy tendrils of his tailcoat slithering along with him.  
  
Dante perused in a rush, fascination and fear compelling him forward but it were as if he was chasing a whisper. Virgil kept in sight, possibly purposefully, looking back at him over his shoulder with warning eyes and scowling lips, his body language evident that he did not wish to be bothered. But Dante was as relentless in his hunt as he was in his fight. The next moment he had led him between two buildings, somewhat unfamiliar, and Dante stopped to look about him carefully. Virgil appeared again, boldly, legs spread in a slightly offensive, yet slightly on guard position, and beckoned Dante to come to him with a fickle grin. He placed a hand around the butt of his Katana readily. Dante rushed forward in a blink but Virgil disappeared when he was upon him and he felt only a pinch of his flesh tear under his chin, and saw only a glint of the cold steel katana pass under his neck. Dante whipped around to face him, hand pawing the flesh wound under his neck. Virgil stood down a ways, erratic grimace, and flicked insultingly Dante's blood from the edge of his sword. He was playing with him. When Dante lifted his sword again for a second round, he vanished without so much as the tormenting laughter that haunted his youth.

2:12pm. Breakfast as usual, though late in the afternoon it was, Dante did not end his stubborn search until five that morning. He rolled his shoed feet onto the ground quickly as if he just remembered he was late for an appointment, but in truth he was eager to find out what hand fate had dealt him today. He grabbed the Ruger, spun the barrel, fired. Once. Twice. Three times.  
  
_Click, click, click._

"God forsaken piece of shi-" He set the gun down on the bed next to him. "Three days worth of breakfast."

The late afternoon sun aimed down at him directly, it seemed, painting him in diamond-shaped colors. He sat at the edge of a pew near the rear, closest to the center aisle, a miserable sight if a sight at all, his head bent between his knees and his hands resting on the back of the pew in front of him. Mass had been over for a while, but he preferred the church to himself. The irony of seeing the red devil, at a place suspected least welcoming, was not unfamiliar. The half of him that was man had a void that had never been filled or touched by any other means. And despite his origin, devils were angels once, and redemption didn't seem so far-fetched. His soul never did belong to him, but he wanted it considered, least he fall into the hands of the Angel of Death that breathed down his neck every night but managed to escape him at breakfast. Was he a religious man? He did not know. He sat back in the pew with a thoughtful look in his eyes, passing his hand across his neck. He'd healed already but he didn't need a scar to remind him of what happened. He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder and he looked up into the warm face of a Priest. 

"You mustn't look so fierce," he warned. "You'll chase away your blessings." Dante did not change his demeanor.

"This is a safe place, " he added, continuing down the aisle to prepare for the five o'clock mass. "The devil isn't welcomed here."

Dante didn't remember what happened, but one instant he was riding along in the bay area at a slow and steady pace, trying to inhale a hotdog and guide his red rocket along a curve cliff side, only two lanes, when Virgil appeared again, this time nestled between the handle bars on his bike. "What the-" He jerked his head back and Virgil swung his legs forward into his chest. The bike veered off course, he with it, and in an incredible and tremendous crash, the fall had ended and things were dark.  
When he opened his eyes again, his body was stiff and frosted with blood, evidence that what wounds he might have had, healed. He was propped up against his bike, legs stretched out in front of him. He glanced up at the dark and rocky cliff that would have claimed a lesser man. What a wonder Red Rocket had made it. He held his head up, feasting his eyes on the pacing silhouette, an arrogant and self-righteous flair to it, trails of a long katana drawn in the sand behind the pacing demon. Dante blinked and sat up, shaking the sand from his colorless hair. It was near dusk, judging by the violets and golds that painted the sky just over the horizon. 

"This has to stop," Dante greeted. The silhouette did an about face and promptly started toward him. Dante shuffled quickly to his haunches and sprang toward him when he neared, but Virgil coolly skipped back, dodging his swipes. Dante gave him a face that heeded warning, but Virgil calmly declined in his own voiceless manor. Dante had been chasing him all last night. Now he had him he wasn't so sure with what to do with him, but the dangerous game of hide and seek had to end. He reached down at his sides for Ebony and Ivory, then, disappointed, reached back for Alastor. Also disappointed. Virgil drew his katana and discarded it to the sand. He was fair, he had always been fair but he had also always won.  
When Dante swung his fist forward he felt the fabric of his clothes graze his fist. He'd missed, but Virgil swayed back, a slightly impressed and half surprised look on his face. If he could speak he'd mention how impulsive he was. But Dante already knew he was an offensive fighter, Virgil would stand still and block everything, all of it, and still win. He tried not to let the past interfere with the present, and, rushing in again, was side stepped casually. He felt him grab a handful of his shirt and sling him back to his starting point.  
  
It was petty shit like that that drove him mad. Virgil beckoned him to come again and when he did, he grabbed both fists coming at him and forced him into the sand, where then Dante took the opportunity to lie back and launch him with his legs, but Virgil escaped yet again, using Dante's thrust to cartwheel himself to a standing position.  
  
_"Heh, heh, heh, heh."_ The deep throat laughter could rock the foundation in Dante's head.

"Fuck you, Virgil, come on!" He spat. This time Virgil took the invitation and surged up to him so quickly he would have sworn he'd teleported had he not seen evidence of sand spark up behind his fluid movements. Dante made a connection, finally, when he felt his fists hit flesh, but it did not slow him. Virgil whipped behind him, forced him to his knees and gripped his head. A loud snap, and the vibrations of Dante's bones rippled through his fingers. He let go when Dante's limp neck lolled to the side.  
Shit. Dante shuffled to a stand, grasping his neck. He didn't break it. He brought his foot to his face, missed the initial kick, caught him on the return. He was getting faster, angrier. It deadened some of the frustration to finally hit him. He could feel a fire of irritation building up in his eyes but Virgil never did tense any. He caught the next leg thrown his way, swatted the series of fists that followed and retaliated with a swing so furious it sliced wind, and Dante felt his chest tremble with the impact. He dropped back into the sand and Virgil pressed his boot up under his neck and held out a hand to stop him, least he counter. Dante looked up at him, the fire had died and a flicker of fear went through him. He could kill him now.  
  
But he didn't. Virgil held up a finger and a smile forced it's way through his solid expression. 'One.'


	4. Once More, We Dance

Once More, We Dance

June 14th. One. Then he gave him a look with it, as if to say, _now back off._ But Dante became all the more insatiable with another defeat smothering his ego. He was thirsty for victory. Red Rocket was begging for a paint job after the ordeal the previous evening, but the appearance of the bike least troubled him. Earlier that morning he didn't even have his breakfast, let alone_ think_ about it. The winds were changing.  
  
At around seven, again when the temperature cooled considerably and his phone began to ring, he took a frantic call from a young woman begging him for peace. When he got to her home, twenty-some odd miles east, she was thumping her bible and pointing towards the living room. A raccoon in the chimney, he supposed, was reasonable thought for a demonic breech. How anticlimactic and uneventful. One day though, a call would matter. He sputtered to stop at a red light, leaned flirt fully forward to admire a group of women at the cross walk paying him half mind. One waved at him and he kissed the air much to her fancy, but he had no intentions of taking her home. Not back to his flat, anyway. Alastor stole his attention when it damn near electrocuted him, covered his body in a blue fog then sizzled silently inactive again.

"Virgil," he couldn't help but give a toothy grin at the chance for vengeance. He followed the vibrations of Alastor, stronger at most points than others, ceasing to warn him completely for moments at a time before surging again. He must have been teleporting, and although Dante knew he could have just as easily appeared behind him on the bike and drive his sword through his heart, for one reason or another he didn't. Perhaps he enjoyed their rendezvous. Or perhaps a public death did not appeal to him. Near to an hour went by without so much as a glimpse of him, and now Dante was in a totally different city altogether.

"If you're gonna lead, lead. Don't have me chase you." He was about to turn around and start home when his reflection in a storefront mirror did not mimic his image on his bike. Of course not. He dropped his leg to hastily turn the bike and start after Virgil who shadowed around a corner. He had allowed Dante to find him again. Dante didn't bother to stop the bike. He hopped off of it, guiding the still spinning tires a few feet before it tipped over humming in protest. He took off after the shadow until he caught up with the man and drew his sword mid pursuit.

"Come on baby, dance with me," he pleaded, swinging Alastor at his back. He didn't see when he drew his sword but it blocked his attack with a loud _clang _and Virgil spun around and thrust the tip of his katana at him. Dante leapt back eagerly. He couldn't touch him now. Contrary to the fight he was looking for, Virgil sleeved his sword and turned away from him again. His actions said to leave him alone, but at the same time, as he looked over his shoulder at him, it said he would fight him if need be. It need be.

Slow motion, as it was in the days gone when they drew swords, never together but always against one another. Dante was too quick with a sword to give Virgil time to block and counter, but when he did, Dante was always ready to avoid the blade with grace. He was a perfectionist in the art of narrow escape. He did an underhand swipe with the sword in hopes of launching him but he missed, tried to split him in half on the rebound but he missed again, and the tip of Alastor connected with the concrete. Before he could lift it up, Vergil's boot was upon it, anchoring it, and he thrust forward and brought the blade to his face with the broad side. Thwack! Dante grabbed the blade with his free hand but Vergil pulled back and parted the flesh of his hand with ease.  
  
_Heh, heh heh, heh, heh._ The maniacal guffaw mockingly came again. He lifted his boot, coaxed him again. Expecting a reprisal with the sword, he was ill prepared to block the foot to his sternum that sent him skidding back on his heels. Dante sent Alastor after him but he caught it effortlessly. True to habit Ebony and Ivory howled after Alastor, ripping through Virgil's flesh like paper. But he absorbed the impact as though it were simply raining on him. He teleported in front of Dante, mid round house, and plated the brute of the kick on his chest. Dante went sailing back into an adjacent wall, where upon landing, Alastor came flying toward him and deliberately lodged itself between his legs. Dante barely had time to sigh in relief when Virgil marched up to him again. He started to rise but Virgil stopped and held out his hand again. Two.  
  
Dante blinked and he was left against the wall alone, Alastor jutting out from between his legs like a steel erection.  
  
Three. Four. Five. June 17th. 

"Fuck!" Dante threw down Alastor so viciously; it spun violently until it clattered to the ground and slide to the far side of the room where everything else was. He stomped over to his answering machine, ripped the cord out from the wall and smashed it into the floor. It shattered like cheap glass. He charged into the bathroom and flicked on the light, dashing to the mirror to survey how much damage Virgil had done to his face. When he walked into the building he was greeted with a terrified scream from a downstairs neighbor. What had Virgil done? Rivers of blood streamed down from his white hair, which was mated to his forehead, and into his eyes and every crevice of his face. The bridge of his nose was broken, and some vessel had burst in his eyes because they were as red as the blood on his face. He pinched his nose between his index finger and thumb, snapping the bridge back into alignment.  
The night before, Virgil had thrown him out of a window from a fifth story abandoned building, much to the terror of persons in the street, and much more to their amazement as he got up and went back to his faithful steed, Red Rocket. The night before then, the fight ended with a promise of death, each time he went back ended a tad more dangerous than the night before. He was a martyr for punishment, and it was obvious that Virgil was tired of punishing him. The task of tracking him every night increased in difficulty, and the reward for finding him was even more severe.  
  
The phone rang, but he did not spring to answer it. He hadn't had breakfast all week. If he went after him tomorrow and lost the fight, he might be gumming his meals if he lived to eat them. Gumming. He reached into his mouth and yanked out a molar hanging by a nerve in the back.


	5. June 18th

June 18th.  
June 18th. If Dante could have seen this week coming, he would have left only one chamber in the Ruger empty and then spin it. Had that been the case he wouldn't be in the predicament he was in now, lying flat on his back on the roof of some building, the location irrelevant, time irrelevant, but the fact that he was going to loose another fight was quite relevant. Alastor was but a finger lift away but he hadn't the strength to lift his eyes far less a finger. The rain beating down on his face kept him conscious, pooling in his open mouth and washing away his essence in red streams of bloody water. The evening was picturesque, set aside the incessant rain pouring droplets of water the sizes of pennies tumbling down on the city like hail. Thunder clapped. The moon buried behind black cottony clouds, but shining just enough to caress the fallen devil's exhausted body. Dante opened his eyes. Although the fights were brief, his shame was evident and would be everlasting.  
He considered the blow that landed him on his back. After some time clashing weapons, he'd managed to swat the katana away from his rival, how he did it he did not know, but when the taste of victory lashed at his tongue his hastiness engulfed his better judgment. He leapt for an aerial attack, but as if Virgil had read his mind he leapt also, and still higher, so that Dante passed beneath him. When they landed, Dante attempted a backhand swipe with Alastor that would have surely put him down had he not missed, but Virgil caught his hand, brought his boot to the soft just below his naval. When Dante double over it pain, he plucked Alastor from his hand and brought the broad side of the sword down onto his back. Before he could even recover, he felt a handful of his wet hair force him to his feet, and from his feet he lifted, soared, and came crashing back onto the building top. Everything ruptured when he landed, a squirt of blood shot out from his mouth and his ears emptied the dams of blood in his head. The impact forced him to lie still although he hadn't at the time, any intentions of rising. Virgil threw him his sword. He wasn't finished yet.  
Now he watched as his rival slipped his boot under his own sword, kicked it into his awaiting palm and slung the drenched end trails of his navy coat behind him. Dante dropped his head, his chest heaving, his wet clothes weighing him down and despised the thought of losing again. He could hear him coming up to him, the sloshing of wet footsteps growing louder with proximity. He knew that he would lift his hand to raise the count. He was already out of fingers on one hand. "No..." Dante protested, forcing himself to a sitting position when he neared. He shot up with renewed bit dynamism and closed his fingers around Alastor's handle. He leapt to his feet and swept the hair back from his face, ready for round two. He would rather die fighting.

Virgil stood with his usual expressionless glare, the water rolling down his devilish features. With eyes the color of the moon, he eased out his trench and let it fall to the building top like lead. A fickle smile followed.

_Heh, heh, heh._  
  
Dante struck like lightening, he and the weather in a competition of speed, he was striking and retreating, ducking and rolling more tonight that he had in the previous nights combined. He methods had changed considerably now. He decided to make Virgil attack him. Virgil swung diagonally, missed, tried to catch him with a fist, but Dante slid out of the way like he was on skates. He backed up and returned Virgil's grimace, egging him on.

"You're making love to me." Despite his sweet words and calm demeanor, he only hoped that his exhausted body could keep up with his ego and not stall on him now. He could see that his insult had some effect on him, because the groaning effort that came from his throat to channel enough strength into his next attack was a new surprise. Dante locked weapons with him, pushed him off forcefully and backed up quickly to give him maneuvering space. Virgil teleported behind him, but Dante met him on the return trip with a kick to the face. Virgil nearly toppled over.

"And don't teleport," he warned, shaking a finger at him.

Virgil stopped momentarily, aghast at the fluid running from his nose. He could bleed, Dante noticed, although he figured he could, it was not until now that his assumptions were confirmed. It humanized the devil hybrid that had been more devil than man, although he seemed less of a man now that he was bleeding for a quiet evil took him and shone out in his eyes. Dante tried to hide the quiver that shot through his body. He lifted Alastor, spread his legs and offered him no sympathy. He had shed enough blood already.  
When Virgil recovered, he thrust forward so viciously with demonic speed, had Dante not seen the edge of the blade aiming toward his heart flicker in the moonlight, he would have been skewered. Calmly, he slowed the situation and did not blink, so he could see the gritting teeth of his opponent as he came streaming toward him with his offensive arm outstretched, his fist balled defensively against his side and the flicker of anger in his narrow eyes reflecting like headlights. He could not block him nor return charge for charge, so he dropped to one knee, drove his fist into his ribs. Virgil softened instantly over his fist as if Dante had penetrated him with the blow, and when he folded over a Russian leg sweep took from him his footing and he fell down for the first time like a tree freshly cut. Before he could regain composure, Dante put his foot on his chest and leaned over him smugly, bringing the edge of Alastor to the scar that decorated his neck like a permanent necklace. Dante held up a finger. One.  
  
Surprised, Virgil managed to close his mouth when Dante lifted his foot and offered him a fair and respectful hand, but he saw him as less than a brother and more of an opponent that should have killed him and reap the spoils of victory. He shot up swiftly, much to Dante's surprise and gripped a handful of his shirt, pulled him down onto his katana and gleamed when he felt the warm blanket of blood cover his hand. He was nose to nose with Dante, his physical replica, but he was not mirroring his pained expression.  
Dante shot open his eyes, dropped his mouth. His hands went limp instantly and Alastor clattered to the building top from his loosing grasp. Dante crumbled to his knees and Virgil stood, driving the katana deep into him until the handle met flesh and would go no further. His mouth filled with blood and ran over on either side of his mouth like melted candle wax. Virgil felt a hand wrap around his own, but it was too weak to oppose the force driving into him. "...Y..o...ki...l..n..g me....V-Vir....gle." Dante gargled. It was his fear that he was. Virgil's lips parted, the ferocity in his eyes did not deter, and his mouth moved as though struggling to talk through his handicap. Dante's hand came up to his face and caressed it, though had he been stronger he might have tried to break his neck. Virgil was so intense he was trembling, and when he felt Dante's dead weight pull, he dropped his shirt and watched him slip off the katana. It stopped raining. Virgil stepped back, paused a moment to see if he would rise. When he didn't, he tugged at his matted hair, face knotted in pain, and disappeared with the next flash of lightning.


	6. The June 18th Recollection

The June 18th Recollection

By now his blood bathed the sheets and what did spill over painted the floor scarlet, seeped into the crevices between the planks of unvarnished floorboards and crawled down toward the far side of the room where everything seemed to slide. There it touched the wall and made a red border along the corner of the room. He could feel it rolling from his fingertips and constantly dripping into a small puddle below his over- hanging hand. He did not rise. He feared he could not. If he could see how the vitality had left his face and paled his skin, dimmed the smalls of his eyes, he would have believed himself to be dead, but he knew better than to close his eyes. But they were so heavy.

It suddenly reoccurred to Dante why Virgil should have died some many years ago.

When Virgil could speak, Dante didn't remember him speaking often. When he _did_ speak, it was almost mechanical, always tinted with disgust and ready to dismiss. They were young men of twenty who shared no bond other than their blood lineage, and the recent loss of their mother had taken young Dante by uneasy surprise. Then there was too much speculation, conspiracy and suspicion surrounding his mother's death to rest easy. But they had lost Virgil to evil long before then. He wondered if it would consume him too. He remembered a time when he was alive, when he could feel and love, but in parallel, it was a time when tragedy was also at its heaviest.

"Dante?" A feminine voice called. He looked off to his right where a young woman lay naked in the cover of darkness, blanketed slightly beside him. She rolled kittenishly to him, touching his bare chest with a fair hand, and seeking post sex affection, found his hand and kissed his fingertips tenderly.

"You're so quiet." He watched her quietly, glad that she could not read his blank expression in the dark.

"I know you're watching me. I can see your eyes in the dark. They almost glow." She giggled girlishly, slightly nervous, hoping that he would not let her converse alone, as he had done so many times before. Dante blinked away and exhaled through his nose, taking his hand back from her possessive grasp. His actions hurt her, and least she suffer him her affection, she asked,

"Am I bothering you?"

"I'm thinking." He replied quickly, as if his words were a part of her sentence. His response was hardly a comfort.

"I know you're thinking about your mother. Since she …_died_ things have been weird with you." She chose her words carefully, although she wanted him to know that a murder and a death differ by passion and involvement. She'd never told him, but it was disquieting to be in the eerie home, where his mother's soul rested and his father existed as a shadow, ever present and mysterious. The manor itself felt cold and vacant, as though the dead still walked with their living brethren and haunted the vast halls with silence. She continued. "How is your brother taking it? You know you two look so much alike I wonder sometimes if it's you or him that I'm with."

Again, Dante did not reply. He tucked his arms behind his head and stared up at the painted shadows of rosary beads and crucifixes on his bedroom wall. He had at least twenty hanging from the bedposts and railing on his bed. He listened intently to Virgil's pacing footsteps downstairs. He knew when he stood directly under his room, because there was a loose floorboard there that groaned when he stepped off.

"Like now…Now that you aren't talking." She gave up momentarily and eased closer to him to join him in staring at the painted shadows on the wall.

"Why do you have all these rosary beads and crucifixes over your bed?"

Finally, Dante spoke again. "My mother was very religious."

"Is your father?"

"In a sense."

"I've never met your father."

"Neither have I."

"Don't be silly. I hear him in the house all the time. I think it's really cool how he's a Count. Count or Lord, was it? Count Dracula or something." He did not join her in her laughter.

Dante sat up stiffly, his sheets crumbling into his lap. "Listen, B."

Beatrice sat up as well, fearful that she had insulted him and was ready to apologize. He held out a hand to silence her, gently.

"I can't see you any more after tonight. This is my last night here, you know that."

She nodded sadly in understanding. "Won't you keep in touch where ever you go?" She knew she'd set herself up for that rejection but she held fast to hope.

Dante shook his head. "I want nothing to do with this place. If I could delete what's happened to me from this point in my life back, I would." Again, Beatrice nodded in understanding.

"Where ever you go, just take your mother with you, if nothing else. She gives you humanity." If only she knew how accurate her statement had been. She leaned into him and met his lips one last time. "Be a gent and walk me downstairs. I get goose bumps when I'm alone."

Damn handsome, despite his uncommon physical characteristics of pure white hair, haunting green eyes the color of iced emeralds, and an uncanny and devilish air that made him unwelcoming. He possessed a silent charm when ready, a haughty attitude and a confident stroll that opposed failure or depression, as if his self-possession granted him immunity. He certainly had presence, but he was a very dangerous man. Virgil was a liar and a thief, a rapist and a slanderer, a blasphemer and a sadist, and above all, a murderer. Positively, he was fair and determined. But the devil had control of those properties also.

Dante had been watching Virgil from the darkness and safety of the connecting room, watching him sit contemplatively before a grand fireplace, a book open and overturned in his lap, although he could not read. Dante had an unforgiving and undying hatred for him, partially because he saw the potential evil in himself that was alive in Virgil every day. How contrary to what his had father fought for, the unyielding evil was reincarnate and manifest in Virgil. Dante paced into the room, plucked the book from his lap and closed it. Virgil looked up at him, carrying the same stolid face then as he did now. Dante felt his hands tremble but he gripped the book tighter to mask his anxiety. Virgil rested his chin on his fist, leaning away in the chair and gave Dante his charming smile. He already knew Dante wanted to kill him for what he'd done, but he wouldn't let him. Doom was heavy and impending.

"Chess?" Dante offered, starting toward the library. He discarded the book along the way, untrusting of the heavy footsteps following behind him in the dark and silent house. He nestled in front of the chessboard in the library, watched Virgil settle in across from him and make the first move. He remembered playing a tight- lipped game, and minutes into the start, Virgil was laughing already.

"_Heh, heh, heh."_

Dante sat back in the chair in thought, then leaned over his knees linking his hands together under his chin. He would be laughing last tonight. When he finally made a move, he sat back in the large study chair, lapped his foot over his knee and folded his arms across his chest. He glanced up at the shadow behind Virgil's chair as he leaned forward to make a move and did not bring it to his attention. Virgil sat back, still with the snakelike smile to watch Dante who had his attention fixed on the shadow. He spoke his very last to him then.

"What are your eyes looking at?" He demanded. He did not wait for the reply. His expression melted when he became conscious to another presence, and he jerked around quickly to face the intruder.

In a flash, Dante watched his father's mighty hand come down upon Virgil's head to seize his hair. His neck lifted, and a mighty sword split him from ear to ear. Dante did not wipe the splatter of blood from across his face. In fact, he did not stand again until Virgil's body collapsed to the floor. There was a scuffle, he knew that, but the plan was for him to leave.

It was obvious now who won that fight. The man who killed a legend was destined for infamy.

June 19th, 20th, 21st.

"Mr. Dante? Mr. Dante? Is everything alright?"

Dante popped open his eyes to the sound of his doorknob rattling, the torture of the morning sunlight streaking in through his blinds and beating him with warm rays. He slithered away from it and smashed his eyes shut.

"Mr. Dante? Should I call the police? An ambulance? For God's sake, man, say something!"

Dante managed to find his voice, which came raw and unfamiliar. "What?"

There was a sigh of relief from the other side of the door. "Oh, thank God." A brief pause before the voice, a man's, continued. "The madame downstairs from you says that her roof is dripping what appears to be blood. The ceiling is so stained you ought to see it! Didn't mean to trouble you, I know you like to keep to yourself, Mr. Dante, but is everything alright? Should I call the medics?"

Dante groaned and sat up abruptly, bringing a hand over his chest to finger the scarred flesh that had sealed over the wound. There was a slight indent, and around it, the flesh was callous and rough to the touch. Although it hurt no more, it was a reminder of the reality that he faced some time ago. His floorboards were sealed with his own blood, and where he had lay, a dark pool of clotting blood shaded his position on the sheets. Such a bloody horror, he could not believe it was his _own_ horror, and that so much blood spilled here far surpassed the fountains that seeped from his own enemies at his hand. A deserving shame swept over him immediately.

Virgil didn't understand why he had to die. Dante didn't understand why he had to live.

He went for the Ruger straight away without responding to the persistent voice behind the door. When he touched it, though he had felt it before but not for many days now, a sense came to him that his fate had changed. That his destiny would be revealed to him shortly after pulling the trigger, and a calm would replace the turmoil inside of him. He had about as much direction as an abandoned kite blowing the in wind. He spun the barrel deliberately so it would fall on the sole occupied chamber.

"Mr. Dante? Please answer and I'll go away. Do you want me to call the ambulance?"

Dante turned the nozzle to himself and as his crimson lips encompassed the barrel, he mumbled, "If You have a plan for me, divinely intervene…" He pressed his eyes shut.

A loud _clack_ responded when he pulled the trigger, and his eyes tore open in shock and almost relief that he did not lay dead. A dud.

"Mr. Dante?"

Wholly amazed, he slid the barrel out from between his lips and eyed the potentially dangerous machinery in his hand. The odds of selecting the sole bullet from a box of many to be defective were, in his mind, astronomical. Clarity came to him all at once, and purpose replaced the macabre thoughts of the suicidal devil. He was suddenly very conscious of himself when the knocking came to him again.

He turned to face the closed door and said, "No, don't call an ambulance. I'm actually fine."

"Certainly?" Came the reply.

"Certainly."

_Months Later…_

Recollection of weakness keeps a man humble. Recollection of success feeds the ego and smothers the desire to _be_ humble. Dante would fair well to delete his past, but overpowering a life like his was as successful as sweeping debris under a rug; it would eventually compile and the bulge would be obvious. For this reason Dante became a heavily confused man with deadened emotions but this corpse had purpose. But Dante had no regrets of his past—he had been trying to murder himself for so long that when Virgil tried to do it for him it was his chance at rebirth.

A contemplative Dante was born, a truly tender man with a smug exterior, a temper like sharp glass and a heart just as brittle. _Would he ever see Virgil again?_ He placed his hand over his side, something he did quite often out of habit, and allowed his finger to slip into the groove that marked where he had been pierced. He hated the fact that he could not stop his eyes from swelling with the tears of hurt, anger, confusion, bitterness and hate. He batted the tears away when an attractive older woman barged into his new establishment and threw herself onto his desk, her breath frequent and her eyes shedding the tears he did not want to spill himself. Devil May Cry had open been open a few days. Already a customer.

He stood up briskly and gripped her arms gently but firmly, forcing her to look up at him through blurry vision.

"Sir, are you an exorcist!" She panted, desperation littering her voice.

Somehow, he managed a crooked yet confident smile that comforted her to some degree. "I could be." The tears he fought to suppress disappeared instantly with the appearance of his devilishly alluring grin.

This was his purpose driven life.


End file.
